


Crash and burn

by Veto_power_over_clocks



Series: Decepticon Hot Rod AU [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: And then my ghost will appear to get it back, Decepticon Hot Rod AU, Hot Rod's huge crush on Deadlock, M/M, Marks, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vague discussion of Non-Con, You'll have to rip outlier!Rodimus out of my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veto_power_over_clocks/pseuds/Veto_power_over_clocks
Summary: The best way to survive in the Decepticon army is to form an alliance or to get someone to protect you.Unfortunately for Hot Rod, Deadlock says he doesn't want anything to do with him.





	Crash and burn

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mars and Squire for the cheerleading over this AU. You're wonderful, beautiful and amazing.

Calm days are a lie; there’s only the calm before the storm and the calm after the storm, but Hot Rod likes to pretend that a day he doesn’t spend trying to kill someone counts as a peaceful one.

He likes those days. He likes waking up and not worrying about whether or not he’ll make it to the night. He likes making his way around the base and seeing familiar faces, greeting them without fearing that they might be dead tomorrow. He particularly likes it when it turns out that Deadlock is there as well.

It has taken him years, but Deadlock no longer walks away as soon as he sees him, and even _talks_ to him, although he never says much and prefers spending their conversations looking at Hot Rod like he can’t understand what he’s plotting.

“I’ve told you already,” Hot Rod says as he aims, “I want us to start an alliance.”

The shooting range isn’t a private place, but everybody knows that Hot Rod has been trying to get Deadlock as his ally. Everybody also knows that at this point Hot Rod asks because he doesn’t know how to give up.

“I know,” Deadlock says, aiming as well. His accuracy is lower than Hot Rod’s, but he makes up for it with pure firepower. In Hot Rod’s opinion, that’s a very wasteful tactic, but the mech has managed to stay alive and climb through the ranks of the Decepticon army, so he can’t judge much. “And as I’ve already told you, I have no reason to ally myself with you.”

Hot Rod sighs and shoots. Later, he leaves with Deadlock, almost jogging to keep up with Deadlock’s quick pace and long strides.

“Are you ever going to stop?” Deadlock asks, coming to an abrupt halt in front of a door.

“Stop what?” Hot Rod asks, feigning ignorance. Deadlock has asked him the same question so many times that it’s as much a part of the routine as Hot Rod’s request.

“This. Asking me for an alliance.”

Hot Rod crosses his arms in front of his chest and gives him an unimpressed look.

Usually, this is the point at which Deadlock rolls his eyes and keeps going on with his life, and the point at which Hot Rod decides that spending a few more minutes with him isn’t a bad idea, so he starts asking Deadlock about his day and telling him about his own.

Today, as always, Deadlock rolls his eyes. Then he opens the door and walks into the next room, and Hot Rod is so used to the routine that he follows him before the door gets to close, promptly realizing that he has followed Deadlock to his hab suite.

Hot Rod stays in front of the door and watches as Deadlock walks to the center of his hab suite and turns to him. It’s not a big room; Deadlock could cover the distance from the door to the opposite wall in five steps, maybe four.

“Why are you here?” Now Deadlock’s the one giving the unimpressed look.

“I want to talk,” Hot Rod says, shrugging. “How’s your day been?”

“My day?” Deadlock huffs. “I went to the shooting range and got pestered by some mech about an alliance I’ve repeatedly told him I won’t enter. And now said mech won’t take the hint and leave me alone, so I have to deal with him in my own hab suite.” Deadlock’s tone is harsher than his usual rejection of Hot Rod, and it stings. He’s right. He _has_ been pestering him. It’s just that he doesn’t know if Deadlock will still let him spend time around him if he isn’t asking him about the alliance. “The answer, Hot Rod, is ‘no’. Will you go now?”

He should leave. He should turn around, walk away, and never bother Deadlock again. Instead, he opens his mouth to resignedly say, “I want to know why. Just that. You always say ‘no’ and never explain why.”

“Seriously?” Deadlock shakes his head. “The whole point of an alliance is to help each other. I see how _I_ can help _you_ – you’re fast and you’re skilled, but when it comes to force, you’re at a disadvantage. You need me. Me? I’m fast and strong enough that I don’t need skill. What help can you offer me?” He stands up tall and crosses his arms over his chest, looks down at Hot Rod without hiding his disdain.

“You _do_ know that Megatron recruited me personally, right?” Hot Rod asks slowly.

“So what?” Deadlock shrugs with one shoulder. “He recruited me personally too. Any sort of protection you may offer, I already have.”

“Yes, but we both know that he didn’t recruit me to become a soldier.”

That Megatron expects him to become a leader is no secret; he had almost said so when he brought Hot Rod in. Deadlock remains unimpressed; he narrows his eyes and takes a step towards Hot Rod. Perhaps he’s trying to loom and look threatening, but he lost the ability to scare Hot Rod a long time ago, back when he dragged Hot Rod away from a burning building kicking and screaming.

“That’s your offer? Political protection in exchange for me fighting off your enemies?”

“I can fight my own fights. I just want people to _think_ you’ll fight them for me.”

A huff and Deadlock smirks. Then he takes another step towards Hot Rod. He’s close enough for Hot Rod to feel his field, amusement and disbelief pushing against him. He needs to tilt his head back to get a good look at Deadlock’s face.

“You don’t need an alliance for that. You can just ask for my protection.” He leans down slightly, lets his hand hover above Hot Rod’s shoulder. “A mark here so everyone knows you’re mine and leaves you alone.”

For a split second, before he crosses his arms again, the tip of Deadlock’s finger brushes the base of Hot Rod’s neck and that small point of contact becomes the center of his world. Hot Rod doesn’t want to think about why he feels that way, and he ends up thinking about how cold Deadlock’s finger had felt against his plating and wondering if his whole frame would feel just as cold pressed against him.

Bad thoughts. Terrible thoughts.

“I’m not yours. Even if I agreed to something one-sided, I wouldn’t be _yours_.” He sets his jaw and gives Deadlock a challenging look. “I refuse to be left alone just because others think you have some sort of claim over me.”

“You know that that’s the easiest way. Alliances mean plots. Forming an alliance would just make us targets.”

It’s a good point, but Hot Rod also has a good one.

“Everybody else is forming alliances. I want to be safe.”

“And why does that involve forming an alliance?”

“Because that’s how protection _works_.” He doesn’t know at what moment he raised a hand and started pointing at Deadlock. “You look after the people that look after you.” He hopes that didn’t sound as desperate and pleading as he thinks it did.

“So you want me to _mark_ you and you want to mark _me_ to let everyone know that we’re protecting each other. Like that might make a difference if anybody wanted to hurt you,” Deadlock says, leaning down further, so his face is closer to Hot Rod’s.

“Is this supposed to intimidate me?” Hot Rod asks, aware of their closeness, of Deadlock’s size, of how they are alone in Deadlock’s room. He thinks he should be scared, or at least mildly worried, but there’s not a single circuit in him that’s afraid of Deadlock.

Deadlock takes a step back, apparently just as aware as Hot Rod of what the situation looks like. Hot Rod suddenly feels colder.

Hot Rod smiles as he explains, “The lower-ranking mechs will be afraid of what you’ll do if they hurt me. And the high-ranking ones will be scared of what I might do if they hurt you. We both have Megatron’s favor.”

“This again? I don’t want that sort of protection. Unless you have something useful, forget it.”

Deadlock takes another step back.

“I’m an outlier,” Hot Rod says.

Deadlock frowns and, for the first time since they met, looks somewhat interested.

“What do you do?”

“I can flame out. I’ve got a pretty good blast radius.”

“So what you’re saying is that I could get caught in the explosion,” Deadlock says flatly.

“I could use it to get to you if you’re ever surrounded.”

“You think I wouldn’t be able to fight them off?” Deadlock makes a dismissive gesture as he says, “Forget it. The answer is still no.”

“Fine.” Hot Rod sighs. “I’ll… I’ll stop, then. If you really think there’s no way I can help you, I’ll stop asking. I should have stopped a while ago, shouldn’t I?”

There’s a very short, almost unnoticeable, pause before Deadlock says, “Yes, you should have.”

“You won’t see me again unless you have to,” Hot Rod says, a part of his spark hoping that Deadlock won’t like that, but Deadlock seems relieved.

“Good. Now go,” he says, making a shooing motion.

Hot Rod leaves and keeps his promise. The next time he talks to Deadlock is because both of them are being sent to the same battle, and it’s just a brief exchange of words about strategy.

Battles have started blurring together in Hot Rod’s mind. At the beginning, each battle was memorable; nowadays he can’t tell one bloodbath apart from another one.

This one will be memorable just because of how long it is, and then because he’s surrounded. He wishes he could have avoided it, but the Autobots knew the terrain better and, after Primus-knows-how long, they managed to get Hot Rod against a rock formation.

It doesn’t matter. He can escape. His only worry is that his energon levels aren’t high enough for the flare he needs to take out his enemies, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, he needs to survive.

He smiles at the advancing Autobots. He can feel the energon being redirected towards his outer plating, ready to be ignited, and he only gives himself an instant to prepare himself and flame out.

It always hurts.

Despite having been forged for this, the moment in which he lights up burns, sharp pain all over his frame that disappears just as quickly as it appeared.

Then he’s falling to his knees, a ‘Low Energon’ alarm displayed behind his optics.

He starts shaking, the alarm more insistent as his systems try to keep him conscious. His spark is pulsing, its energy doing its best to keep his frame functioning, and he knows it’ll be better if he manages to get some energon from his subspace.

He can do this. He just needs to stay conscious long enough to feed himself.

His self-diagnostics tell him that the energon flow to all non-vital components has been diminished, that his t-cog has been blocked, and that his senses are failing. He’s dizzy, has trouble understanding the words and an even greater difficulty remaining upright.

Hot Rod’s reaching into his subspace when his systems crash and he falls on his side, his body shaking and his self-diagnostics still sending alarm after alarm.

.

.

.

.

It’s not much of a victory. If Deadlock dared to be honest to himself, he’d say that what happened is that they weren’t the first to retreat, which means they can take their time in going back to base. Hot Rod will be happy, he can use that time to go search the battlefield for wounded Decepticons.

That’s the reason he doesn’t pay attention to Hot Rod’s absence until everyone starts getting ready to leave.

“Someone tell Hot Rod that if he doesn’t come back now, we’re leaving without him,” Deadlock says to a gathered group of soldiers.

The concerned looks they exchange tell him everything.

One of the soldiers – Stormrunner, an overemotional red mech that’s a full head taller than Deadlock – says, “He hasn’t returned yet. Sir.”

His voice shakes slightly and his attempts to look indifferent are a failure. Even if he’d managed to remain stoic, the other soldiers next to him are so clearly worried that they would have given him away anyway.

He wonders what might have kept Hot Rod entertained. Some wounded soldier that’s too big for him to carry easily? That’s probably it.

“So?” he asks curtly. He already knows that he’ll end up going out there to help him.

“What I mean, sir, is that… Hot Rod always comes back to check who hasn’t returned before going back out there,” Stormrunner says, gesturing towards the battlefield. “And today he hasn’t shown up. We were… we were talking about that.” He points at the other mechs, then at himself. “It’s not normal for him. It’s not… He might be…”

The worry in Stormrunner’s field is unsurprising, but still dizzying in its strength, especially because the same emotion can be felt in the others’ fields.

Or perhaps what’s dizzying is the fact that now he’s worried too. The troops clearly like Hot Rod, losing him would be bad for morale. Besides, he’s singlehandedly responsible for saving at least a dozen Decepticon lives.

And, if Deadlock dared to be honest to himself, he’d say that he has grown used to Hot Rod existing. The idea that he might not make it out of a battle is ridiculous, after all, he’s fast, he’s skilled, he’s an outlier… He has everything he needs to survive.

_Everything but brute force._

He might be dead in the battlefield. Perhaps he’s just wounded. He might need help, the same type of help he has given to many others before.

“Let’s go get him,” Deadlock says, hating it. There he goes to risk himself for the biggest nuisance he has ever met, simply because he knows that Hot Rod would do the same for him, just because he feels it’s the right thing to do. “We’ll split up to search more quickly. If we haven’t found him in half an hour, we’re leaving him here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stormrunner says earnestly. He sounds like he's about to break down. Deadlock doesn’t roll his eyes because that might also affect morale.

The battlefield is quiet. He searches his area methodically, giving priority to spots where he thinks he catches a flash of red and gold.

It’s just his luck that now that Hot Rod has finally stopped pestering him about forming an alliance, he has to go and save him anyway. What if he finds him and Hot Rod decides to start asking again? Half of his processor wants to find Hot Rod, the other half wants to leave the problem to someone else.

In the end, what guides him is the smell of smoke.

He finds a group of dead Autobots and Hot Rod against a rock formation, lying in the center of a half-circle of scorched ground. For an instant, Deadlock thinks he’s resting, but then he notices the flickering optics, the light behind them too bright to be a normal setting, and the way Hot Rod’s arms are shaking with minute tremors, how his lips open and close with no sound coming out.

Lost consciousness, spasms, the evidence of a recent fire... What do you burn to produce that fire?

Deadlock has a very clear idea of what’s happening.

_His life would be infinitely easier if he just let Hot Rod die._

That thought comes out of nowhere and he doesn’t bother dignifying it with his attention. He came here to do what’s right; Hot Rod wouldn’t let him die if their positions were reversed and Deadlock will honor that integrity.

There’s only one right course of action.

Deadlock kneels next to Hot Rod, propping him up with one arm. Hot Rod is lighter than he remembered, and just the right size for Deadlock to curl around him protectively.

That thought also comes out of nowhere, so he doesn’t bother with it either.

He searches for the panel covering Hot Rod’s ports and quickly removes it, then he connects his diagnostics cable to Hot Rod.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” he mutters as he lowers his firewalls to allow the flow of information to reach him.

As expected, Hot Rod’s systems are crashing from low energon levels. His optic circuits are suffering serious damage from the flickering.

Hot Rod’s head has lolled to the side. Deadlock carefully puts a hand on his face and straightens his head, distantly noticing that Hot Rod’s plating is warmer than the average mech’s. He keeps his hand against Hot Rod’s face as he adjusts the arm that he’s supporting him with to ensure his head stays in the right position. Then, trying not to jostle Hot Rod, Deadlock takes a cube of energon out of his subspace.

“You’ll have to get me one later,” he tells Hot Rod as he brings the cube to his lips, tilting up Hot Rod’s head to allow it to flow more easily down his intake.

He gives him the fuel slowly, and watches as the tremors and flickering stop. Hot Rod’s diagnostics tell him that his systems are rebooting. Deadlock doesn’t know how long it’ll take for Hot Rod to regain consciousness, but he doesn’t want to be caught connected to him and looming when that happens.

Deadlock disconnects the diagnostics cable and replaces the cover of Hot Rod’s panel again before covering his own, then he puts his arm under Hot Rod’s legs and lifts him.

The walk back is slow, some corner of his brain that he’d thought forgotten insisting he doesn’t disturb Hot Rod.

Everyone is relieved to see them return, going over to check on Hot Rod and thank Deadlock for finding him.

The other mechs that had gone looking for Hot Rod return carrying wounded soldiers. Deadlock’s sure that Hot Rod would be proud if he could see it. Hot Rod might be annoying and not know when to quit, but he has made a positive impact on the troops. If only for that, he deserves to live.

Back at the base, Deadlock deposits Hot Rod on one of the medibay’s slabs and starts walking away after the medic has quickly checked up Hot Rod. He’ll be fine.

“You’re not staying?” the medic says, stepping into his path.

Deadlock has seen this medic so many times he has lost count, and he has yet to learn his name. He insists on being addressed as ‘Doctor’. It’s said that the few mechs that know his name have been threatened into secrecy.

“Why should I?”

The medic tilts his head and allows his field to expand, pushing his contempt against Deadlock.

“You need to rest and he might want to see a familiar face when he wakes up. You can rest here and he can see you when he’s conscious again.”

“Everybody knows him. Make someone else keep him company.”

Deadlock takes a step to the side to walk around the medic, but he blocks Deadlock’s path again.

“You’re the one that saved his life. I’m sure he’d like to thank you… Besides, I have reason to believe you connected to him while he was unconscious. You might want to explain that to him.” His tone is disinterested, but his field is once again unnoticeable. Deadlock hasn’t survived this long without recognizing silent threats.

“I ran a diagnostic. If you’re implying that I would do anything…” Deadlock says, pointing at the medic. You never antagonize medics, everybody knows that, but Deadlock won’t stand here and let someone doubt him like this.

There’s a moment during which the medic just tilts his head up and looks at him. If he had a visible face, Deadlock thinks there would be a thoughtful look on it.

Then the medic nods and his field expands again, clear approval in it.

“Go sit with him,” he says calmly. “You need the rest.”

“Apologize first.” Deadlock doesn’t lower his hand.

“For what?”

“For what you implied.”

The medic hums and tilts his head to the side.

“Very well. I apologize for suspecting that a high-ranking Decepticon might have had less than noble intentions towards an unconscious mech he connected to,” he says softly, with a hint of disdain.

“I would never-”

“Oh, _please_.” The medic crosses his arms over his chest. “My job is to look after every single Decepticon in this base. I have _seen_ things and _heard_ things, I’ve reattached limbs that were torn off by fellow Decepticon soldiers, I’ve done autopsies on victims of various assassination plots. I have no reason to believe you’re any better than some of the sociopaths that this war has allowed to run free. So… I apologize if I offended you, Deadlock,” he finishes with a sickeningly sweet tone.

He has heard about the unstoppable force and the unmovable object. Deadlock gets the odd feeling that the medic in front of him is both, and that the best thing to do is turn around and take a seat at Hot Rod’s side.

Besides, everybody knows that you don’t antagonize medics.

He pulls a chair and sits down. While he had his face-off with the medic, someone had connected Hot Rod to a monitor and to an energon drip.

It’s strange to see Hot Rod so still. He’s always doing something – tapping his foot, drumming his fingers, walking around the room, moving his hands while talking. If it wasn’t for his bright paintjob, Deadlock would wonder if he was dead.

He doesn’t actually want Hot Rod to die. He wants Hot Rod to continue being an idiot that goes into the battlefield to drag wounded soldiers back to base. He wants Hot Rod to continue going on his risky solo missions from which he returns with too many dents and some valuable information. He wants Hot Rod to keep treating him like he’s a regular mech instead of a high-ranking Decepticon.

Those thoughts didn’t come out of nowhere. Deadlock is perfectly aware of why they exist. He has known for a while that Hot Rod is dangerous, because he makes Deadlock _care._  He makes Deadlock think of something that isn’t the cause, and that can’t lead anywhere good. The moment you start valuing someone is the moment you run the risk of them becoming more important than the cause, and that could cost them the war. The Decepticons come first. Deadlock can’t worry about Hot Rod.

It seems that it’s too late to do anything about that, though.

Deadlock leans back on the chair and studies Hot Rod’s frame. He’s fast, skilled, and an outlier. Officially becoming his “protector” probably won’t involve any actual fighting; Hot Rod can take care of himself. Frankly, allying himself with him will probably only mean that Deadlock will be in charge of dragging him out of the battlefield if he’s wounded and, well, he has already done that.

He’ll state his terms for the alliance when Hot Rod wakes up.

.

.

.

.

>>> REBOOT SUCCESSFUL

>>> FUEL LEVEL: 78%

>>> DAMAGED OPTIC CIRCUITS. DAY VISION DIMINISHED BY 12%. NIGHT VISION AT 0%

>>> WELCOME BACK

Nothing hurts. He opens his eyes and needs a moment to focus on his surroundings, relief coursing through him when he recognizes the medibay’s layout. Then he almost jumps when he looks to the side and finds Deadlock watching him.

“Welcome back,” Deadlock says, his eyes then focusing on the datapad he’s holding.

Hot Rod has the crazy thought of looking down and checking his appearance, but manages not to act upon the impulse.

“I remember flaming out,” Hot Rod says carefully, sitting up.

“Do you remember passing out?” Deadlock doesn’t look up.

“Yes.”

“Do you know why you passed out?” Deadlock's tone is indifferent; perhaps too carefully indifferent.

Hot Rod doesn’t want to say it. He’d used his outlier ability to try to convince Deadlock of allying himself with him; finding out that it can be a hindrance might make him even happier that he managed to get rid of Hot Rod.

But he guesses he owes Deadlock the truth.

“I used too much fuel when I flamed out.”

“Yes, you did,” Deadlock says, finally looking up from the datapad. He sounds almost angry. “You’re lucky the soldiers care about you and noticed your absence.”

The troops. Deadlock hadn’t noticed.

“Did they find me?”

“We went looking for you and I found you convulsing on the ground.”

Hot Rod nods.

“Can you… can you tell me everything?” He needs to know exactly who to thank.

Deadlock doesn’t seem happy to share, but he tells Hot Rod about telling the soldiers to message him to come back, about Stormrunner’s worries, about finding him, running a diagnostic and giving him energon.

When he stops talking, he watches Hot Rod, waiting for his reaction.

“Thank you, Deadlock,” he says, looking straight into Deadlock’s eyes and expanding his field so that Deadlock can feel his gratitude.

As usual, Deadlock seems puzzled by his behavior.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“No questions? No worries about how I connected to you while you were unconscious?”

“You had to run a diagnostic.”

“And you believe me?” Deadlock asks, disbelieving.

Hot Rod frowns. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because… because…” Deadlock raises a hand and makes a vague gesture. “You can’t just… take my word for it. That’s just… that’s just naïve.”

Hot Rod snorts.

“Deadlock, I’m many things, but ‘naïve’ isn’t one of them,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ve observed you for years and I trust you. Why do you think I kept asking _you_ , specifically, for an alliance?”

There’s a split second in which Deadlock looks taken aback, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, a sort of vulnerability that Hot Rod hadn’t seen before and which he puts away in the safest corner of his mind, a secret between them.

Then Deadlock’s expression hardens and he’s rolling his eyes and making a dismissive gesture, although Hot Rod feels it’s directed at Deadlock himself, not at him.

“Any other disadvantages to your outlier ability that you forgot to mention?”

“It doesn’t always knock me out. It’s only when I miscalculate the flare or don’t have enough fuel,” Hot Rod says, trying to make it sound irrelevant.

“And how often does that happen?” Deadlock asks, leaning forward and still sounding annoyed.

“Rarely. I don’t… I don’t use the ability if I think there’s a better solution.”

“Right. Any other disadvantages, then?”

Hot Rod hesitates and Deadlock gives him a look that demands honesty.

“It hurts… It burns for a moment.”

“Ah, great. So not only can it knock you out, it also hurts you.” Deadlock raises a hand in exasperation.

“It doesn’t _hurt me_ , it just hurts. And only for a moment!”

Deadlock gives him an annoyed look.

“That doesn’t matter. You have to take care of yourself. You didn’t see the troops today, Hot Rod. If something had happened to you…” Deadlock looks at him for a second with an indecipherable expression on his face. “People care about you, Hot Rod. Take care of yourself.”

“I really didn’t have another choice today,” Hot Rod says, suddenly angry. Who does Deadlock think he is to give him orders? Like Hot Rod had chosen to be surrounded. Like Hot Rod had wanted to flame out while low on fuel.

“I know,” Deadlock mutters tiredly, leaning back on his chair.

With that, Hot Rod's anger evaporates.

There’s a long pause during which Deadlock watches him. Hot Rod just watches him as well. It’s been a while since he last got to spend some minutes with Deadlock, he might as well enjoy them.

“I’ve been thinking about the alliance,” Deadlock says quietly. “You _clearly_ need protection.”

“So we’ll mark each other?” Hot Rod asks, poorly hiding his enthusiasm.

“No.”

“Oh, come on!” Hot Rod raises his hands.

Deadlock stands up.

“The medic should be done with you in a few hours.” Deadlock leans down and says, low enough that only Hot Rod can hear him, “We can’t keep talking here. I’ll go to your hab suite tonight.”

There’s a corner of Hot Rod’s brain that imagines Deadlock whispering those last seven words into his audial. That corner of his brain also imagines that one of Deadlock’s hands is on his waist as he says that, and that Hot Rod’s arms are around Deadlock’s neck.

Hot Rod would appreciate it if that corner of his brain minded its own business.

He nods.

Once he’s finally back in his hab suite, Hot Rod does his best to make sure everything’s tidy. Half is that he doesn’t want to give a bad impression, half is that he can’t stay still.

By the time Deadlock arrives, Hot Rod’s room looks like nobody lives in it. Deadlock looks around and Hot Rod can almost hear him analyzing escape routes and potential weapons.

“Nice room,” Deadlock says. He’s judging, Hot Rod knows it.

“Thanks. Please take a seat,” Hot Rod says, pointing towards the only chair.

Deadlock sits down, and Hot Rod sits on the berth.

“So… you said you’d been thinking about the alliance and that I need protection.”

“Yes.”

“But you won’t let me protect you,” Hot Rod says bitterly.

“I’ve already told you that I don’t want anything from you.” His tone is oddly cold; probably because he's tired of Hot Rod insisting on the same point.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like that you won’t let me protect you.”

“Hot Rod, you know as well as I do that an alliance is dangerous," Deadlock says matter-of-factly. "You’re expected to become a leader and my rank is high enough that Starscream doesn’t like me. You and I, allied? Everyone will be expecting us to plot something.”

Hot Rod sighs. He considers the possibilities and hates that there isn't a single one that will convince Deadlock.

“So what’s the idea?” he asks resignedly.

“I mark you and make everyone think you’re mine. That way, half the Decepticons that might want you dead leaves you alone.”

Hot Rod groans. “You’re right and I hate it.”

“I know,” Deadlock says matter-of-factly.

“You do?”

Deadlock gives him a look that reminds Hot Rod that, just as he’d observed Deadlock for years, Deadlock had probably paid attention to him as well.

“I won’t give up,” Hot Rod says. “Even if you don’t let me mark you, I’ll protect you. I’ll fight anyone that tries to hurt you.”

There’s only a hint of fang in the smile Deadlock gives him.

“Knowing you, I wouldn’t expect any less,” Deadlock says, sounding amused, but not mocking or annoyed. For a second, Hot Rod is happy.

Then Deadlock stands up and says, “I’m going to bite your neck.”

Hot Rod blinks.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Deadlock says, his smile showing more fang.

“Why a bite?” There are other ways of branding, and he knows that Deadlock knows this.

“Why not? It’s easy to do, and makes it clear that you’re mine. It’s suggestive enough that people will think that you’re under my protection for,” he points at Hot Rod’s frame, “ _reasons_. They’re more likely to leave you alone if they think it’s like _that_ than if they think there’s any sort of strategy involved.”

Hot Rod narrows his eyes.

“You’re doing this to mess with me.”

“Maybe.” Deadlock shrugs. “Is it working? Or are you afraid of having my teeth near your neck?”

Hot Rod smiles as well.

“Fine. Let’s do this your way. But you better leave a nice scar.”

“What makes you think I won’t leave a nice scar?” Deadlock asks, mock indignant.

“Have you bitten many necks?” Hot Rod asks teasingly.

“You’d be surprised.”

Hot Rod gives him a disbelieving look and smirks.

Then Deadlock takes a step towards him and he doesn’t feel like smirking anymore.

Hot Rod has become increasingly aware of the fact that he’s attracted to Deadlock. It wasn’t like that at the start, but after so long watching him, familiarizing himself with his flaws and his virtues, it became hard not to like him. At the beginning, all Hot Rod wondered about Deadlock was whether or not he’d be able to rip apart an enemy with his bare hands; nowadays he wonders how those hands might feel around his waist, or tracing maddeningly slow paths up and down his frame. He wonders what it’s like to have one of those hands tilting his face up for a kiss.

If he had some self-preservation instincts, he wouldn’t let Deadlock’s mouth anywhere near his plating. But he can’t back down; Deadlock might notice his feelings if he does. Hot Rod is actually very proud of himself for maintaining a semblance of calm, because Deadlock is standing three steps away from him, about to mark him, and doesn’t seem to have noticed how desperately Hot Rod needs him to touch him.

“Ready?” Deadlock asks, giving him a challenging, questioning look. He stands right in front of Hot Rod, close enough that Hot Rod’s legs are almost touching him. “You can still back down. I’m sure there are soldiers out there that would agree to let you mark them.”

Deadlock reaches to trace some shape at the base of Hot Rod’s neck, probably at the point where he intends to do the marking. Hot Rod _doesn’t_ shiver. Deadlock better be the best bodyguard/protector/ally in the universe, otherwise Hot Rod will have killed himself with desire for nothing.

“I picked you,” Hot Rod says, tilting his head to better expose his neck, using all his self-control to sound indifferent. “None of those other soldiers dragged me out of the battlefield kicking and screaming.”

He looks directly into Deadlock’s eyes as he says that, daring him to ask for clarification. He knows Deadlock understands, he knows because he never speaks of Nyon as if it’s something to be proud of, because he’s always careful to keep the conversation away from the topic, because when others have brought up the subject he has found ways to get them to talk about something else. He knows Deadlock understands what he means because his behavior towards Hot Rod had changed after that day in the battlefield.

Deadlock’s hand is settled on Hot Rod’s shoulder, his thumb rubs against the spot he’d touched before, and he keeps looking at Hot Rod like he’s trying to figure him out. Is he hesitating?

Hot Rod flashes a smile before turning his head to the side and leaning back slightly to fully expose his neck, hands on the berth to keep his balance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Deadlock leaning forward. His free hand settles next to Hot Rod’s thigh on the berth, while the hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder slides until it rests on his arm. Hot Rod barely has time to lament the loss of contact on that spot by his neck before he feels Deadlock’s closed mouth pressing onto it.

Despite the situation and the proximity, Hot Rod has never felt calmer. He trusts Deadlock. He relaxes into the touch and, without thinking, brings up a hand to the back of Deadlock’s neck.

Deadlock’s lips part and Hot Rod feels fangs against his neck, just a scrape, just enough to scratch and make Hot Rod shiver. Then there’s Deadlock’s tongue over the same spot, a touch so delicate that it feels more like something done by a lover than by the mech that’s branding you as his.

Perhaps it’s the softness of the gesture that makes Hot Rod forget himself for a moment and move his hand from Deadlock’s neck to his head, so his fingers can slowly trace the edges of Deadlock’s finials. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes or when he brought up his other hand to grasp Deadlock’s arm; he only becomes aware that he’s done it when the touch of Deadlock’s tongue is replaced with fangs again and Deadlock’s biting down, making Hot Rod’s hands curl in response at the sudden flare of pain. He doesn’t gasp; he manages to keep his lips tightly pressed together, but he can’t help the sound he makes at the back of his throat as Deadlock’s fangs pierce his plating.

The hand on Hot Rod’s arm tightens its grip slightly, as if to keep him in place, and Deadlock’s mouth leaves Hot Rod’s neck, staying close enough that Hot Rod can feel Deadlock’s ventilations on the wound. It’s only a second before Deadlock’s pressing his mouth to the spot again to lick away the drops of energon that come out of the wound, so softly that Hot Rod has to remind himself that this is a branding, not love.

He doesn’t know how many seconds Deadlock spends there, cleaning the wound with careful strokes of his tongue, occasionally brushing it with his lips and sucking lightly on it. Hot Rod only knows that he wants Deadlock to stay there; he likes the way Deadlock’s mouth fits between his shoulder and neck, how cold his lips feel against his always too-warm plating, how he touches him like he deserves kindness. In exchange, Hot Rod keeps caressing Deadlock’s finials, puts his affection into some tender touches that he hopes Deadlock will attribute to him getting carried away by the intimacy of the moment.

Deadlock moves away and Hot Rod manages to put his hands back on the berth, open his eyes and recover his composure before Deadlock gets too see how much he has affected Hot Rod.

He doesn’t step back, instead he stays too close as he inspects his work with a critical eye.

“Yes, I think that’ll leave a nice scar,” he says smugly.

Hot Rod brings a hand up to the mark.

“I meant it, you know?” Hot Rod says. “I’m not giving up.”

“What are you talking about?” Deadlock doesn’t look smug anymore; he’s staring intently at Hot Rod’s fingers, which are still on the mark.

“I’ll mark you one day.” He’s thankful that his voice doesn’t shake. “This is mutual. I’m not letting you take care of me without helping you too.”

Deadlock frowns and gives Hot Rod an odd look, slightly pained, another hint of vulnerability that Hot Rod files away. Deadlock isn’t invincible, and Hot Rod will make sure that nobody ever gets to use those cracks in his armor to hurt him.

“You don’t have to. I’ve already told you, I don’t want anything from you.”

“I want to.” He doesn’t know what pushes him to do it, but he moves his hand from the wound and lays tender fingers over Deadlock’s spark. “Why are you so opposed to someone protecting you?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Deadlock takes a step back and Hot Rod lets his hand fall to his lap.

“I don’t need you. If you want to believe there’s something you can do, that’s fine. But don’t bother, I’ll never let you mark me,” Deadlock says harshly. “Anyway, now that this is done, I’ll be going.”

He takes another step towards the door without turning around, like he thinks Hot Rod might stab him in the back if he does.

“Fine,” Hot Rod says, standing up and walking over to his desk. He grabs some datapads and gets ready to pretend he has things to do, hoping it’ll make things easier for Deadlock if he keeps his back to him.

He sits down, grabs a datapad and starts reading, absentmindedly touching the mark again. It stings, and the area around it is still wet from Deadlock’s attentions. He’s not thinking when he brings a finger to his lips and licks the tip.

The door opens and he hears Deadlock leave his room. Hot Rod drops his head onto the desk and sighs.

Then he touches the mark again.

**Author's Note:**

> Long ago I read [this (very good) starjack fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989198) that gave the idea that Decepticons established protection chains, and that they marked those under their protection as a way to indicate that those mechs should Not Be Messed With. That bit of worldbuilding was really cool and ended up finding its way into this universe (and playing a big part in it).
> 
> Let's see... 1/3 of why this fic exists is that I once said, "I'm gonna write a fic in which the expression 'Hot Rod.exe has stopped working' is a literal description of the events". The next 1/3rd is that I saw [this post](http://veto-power-over-fanworks.tumblr.com/post/182288764930/finding-out-rodimus-fire-ability-hurts-him-and) two days ago and I said, "That. I'm gonna write that." The last third is that that neck biting scene has been in my drafts since November.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos are always appreciated and comments are loved and cherished because they make me happy. If you liked this fic and feel like promoting it, would you reblog [this post](http://veto-power-over-fanworks.tumblr.com/post/182338255165/crash-and-burn) ? Thank you!


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